


2029

by indiefic



Series: Balance [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Snowpiercer (2013)
Genre: F/M, Not a Captain America crossover, and giant boobs designed to feed children, but very based on Peggy/Steve, frank discussions of what happens to a woman's body when she has a kid, stretch marks OMG
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 17:11:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4795568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indiefic/pseuds/indiefic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2029.  Curtis hasn't seen her in a year and a half.  He's beginning to think he dreamed her up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	2029

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set approximately a year and a half after the events of 2027.

The bag over his head smells worse than the tail section and what’s the fucking point anyway?  It’s a goddamn train.  There isn’t anywhere they can take him except _forward_.  He struggles, smashing one of the soldiers into the wall and is rewarded with the crack of a machine gun butt against the back of his skull.  He slumps forward and they drag him for what feels like hours, but must only be a few minutes.  He hears gates open and close.  He has no idea how many cars they’ve dragged him through.

 

A door slides open and he hears a sharp intake of breath.  He’s tossed forward, onto something soft and the bag is pulled away.  He blinks, vaguely aware of _her_.  She touches the back of his head and pulls away blood, staring at her hand in horror.  And then in an instant, she’s in a rage, rounding on the soldiers, screaming in French. slapping and smacking and scratching at them as they cower backwards.  He's pretty sure she throws something heavy and it sounds like it connects solidly with one of the soldiers.

 

There’s a final volley of what he can only assume must be some scathing assessments of the soldiers’ parentage and she slams the door shut.  She stands there, breathing hard, looking down at him.  Then she seems to melt.  She kneels next to him, freeing his hands from the cuffs.  She helps him sit up on the edge of the bed, tsking and hissing over his wound.

 

He prods at it experimentally and is rewarded with a sharp smack on the back of the hand.  He just stares at her and she holds his hand up in front of his face, showing him the grime caked on his fingers.  She shakes her head, frowning as she prods at the wound with her, admittedly, much cleaner hands.  

 

He sits there, hands in his lap, slumped forward and lets her fuss over him.  He breathes deep and is drunk on the smell of her.  He reaches out and catches a lock of her hair between his fingers.  It’s longer now, falling past her breasts in glossy dark waves.

 

She notices him holding her hair and her features soften.  She leans into him, pressing her forehead to his.  He can’t believe he’s here, she’s here.  He’s dreamed of her for so long.

 

And then in a moment, she’s up again, standing, fussing.  He finally takes the opportunity to look around.  They’re in some sort of ... he can only assume some kind of sleeper car.  It’s got a bed, a real bed.  And there’s a door.  He watches her walk through it, turn on the light.  It’s a ... _bathroom_.  My god, he hasn’t seen a bathroom in fourteen years.

 

He’s still stunned when she returns to him, her hands once again clean.  She looks down at him and sighs.  Shaking her head, she urges him to take his clothes off.  He has no idea what’s going on, but he’s not inclined to deny her anything.  He’s not quick, or graceful thanks to recently having the shit beat out of him, but he obliges and is soon naked.  She gathers up his clothes and then walks to the door.  She has a conversation with someone he can’t see in a language he can’t understand and then she’s back.

 

She strips down too, leaving herself only in a thin black tanktop and dark panties.  She leads him into the bathroom and holy fucking shit, there’s a _shower_.  An actual goddamn shower.

 

She starts the water and lets it warm.   _Warm_ water.  He thought these things went extinct a decade and a half ago.

 

Satisfied, she pushes him inside the small cubicle and follows.  There isn’t much room, but he doesn’t care.  He stands there, his face directly under the spray and just ... _feels_.  Behind him, he hears her fumble for something and then she’s gently using a soft soapy cloth to wash him.  He stands there, blinking at the unreality of it all.  When she’s done with his back, he turns to face her.  She looks up at him.  She looks so sad.  Mostly, he thinks, on his behalf.

 

She puts down the cloth and reaches for a little bottle of liquid.  She pours some out into her palm and brushes her clean hand over his face, urging him to close his eyes.  He does and she lathers the soap in his hair and then onto his face and beard.  It’s not the soap she uses.  It has no scent.  But it’s soap.  He can’t remember the last time he saw soap.

 

She is slow, her touch gentle and he just leans there against the wall, seriously considering that they knocked him completely out with that hit and he’s hallucinating this whole thing.  She finally stops with his hair and pushes him back toward the spray.  He rinses his head and face clean and then she’s soaping up the cloth again, gently washing his chest and arms.  Somehow in the tiny stall, she manages to bend down and she washes his legs and feet.  And then she’s standing again, reaching for his hands.  She’s far less gentle with them, scrubbing industriously at his nails.  She does a good job, but some of the grime will never come free.  

 

She sets the cloth aside again, pouring more soap into her palm and then she’s touching gently between his legs.  He groans, hard in an instant and it takes all of his will not to thrust into her hand.  He pulls at her tanktop in irritation.  He wants her skin, but she pushes at his hand and he stops.  She leans into him, pushing him back against the cubicle wall and her strokes are firmer, her hand tighter.  This time he does thrust up into her hand, holding her as he comes, hissing through his teeth.  She looks up at him, seeming rather pleased with herself as she rinses her her hand clean and then steps out of the shower.  He watches her for a moment and then turns under the spray, rinsing off before he follows.

 

* * *

 

 

She’s in bed, under the covers by the time he finally exits the bathroom.  She’s fairly certain she didn’t offend him with the shower, but even if she did, it was too damn bad.  He stank like a dead thing.  She’s brought him here with both Father and Wilford’s blessing.  There is no way she can feel good about that.  But she’s trying to salvage what she can from this deeply unsettling arrangement.

 

She didn’t think they’d let her see him again.  They have.  And that worries her.  Because what more do they have in store for him?  What further ways are they going to use her to twist him to their cause?

 

As usual, she has no intention of helping them.  But she figures they know that already and they’ve somehow used it to have her play even more into their hands.  She hates them.  And she hates herself.  But she’s here regardless.  Because she can’t stay away.

 

He stands there for a moment, watching her and she meets his gaze.  She folds back the covers in invitation and he smiles, like he can’t believe it’s true.  Carefully, he slides beneath the covers and pulls her close, groaning.  She wonders if he’s ever had this.  The simple pleasure of lying naked with a lover in bed.  She doubts it, and that breaks her heart.  Though truthfully, she hasn’t really had it either.  Certainly not with someone like him.  Not with someone she felt about the same way she feels about him.  There is no one like him.  Father, for all his perversity, is right.  Curtis is special.

 

He leans over her and kisses her gently.  He tastes of the mint toothpaste from the bathroom.  She opens her arms and pulls him in close.  He eagerly obliges, lying half over her, one of his legs between hers.  She reaches over and turns off the light, enclosing them both in the darkness.

 

He immediately presses closer, his hands become bolder.  He kisses her, long and deep.  He’s hard again.  She can feel him against her thigh, but he seems in no hurry.  He slides down her body, touching her breasts, but she arches away from him.  He stills, but contents himself with pressing a kiss against her sternum.  He moves lower and she shifts restlessly.  He urges her to part her legs wider and then his mouth is at her hip.  She shivers in anticipation, scratching her fingers along his scalp.

 

His fingers touch her gently and she sighs.  Then his tongue is there, stroking and teasing.  She has no idea where he learned this.  Maybe it’s what passes for birth control in the tail section.  Maybe there simply is no privacy and any knowledge is shared, whether intentional or not.  Either way, he has a talent for which she is deeply grateful.  He brings her to climax twice, before she twists away, panting for breath.

 

She rolls over, onto her hands and knees and he does not need a second invitation.  He’s there, sliding into her, his hands biting into her hips, pulling her back to meet his thrusts.  He seems to be driving straight for climax, but he slows, leaning forward, blanketing her back, pressing hard kisses to the back of her neck as his hand reaches around and rubs her clit in time with his thrusts.  She whines, pushing back against him and makes a strangled noise, rubbing her harder, tipping her into climax.  Her internal muscles pull at him and he grunts, biting her shoulder as he comes.

 

They both collapse onto the bed, a tangle of arms and legs.  One of his arms bands around her middle.  “I fucking missed you,” he says against her shoulder.  She rolls back against him and kisses him.

 

There is a knock at the door and she wraps herself in a robe before answering it.  She speaks to the girl in French, telling her she will be there shortly.  He turns on the light and he’s sitting at the edge of the bed, watching her.  She motions for him to wait, hoping he understands.  Of course, he doesn’t have any clothes.  Not that she has any faith that it would stop him from leaving the room.  But she hopes.

 

* * *

 

She disappears and he flops back on the bed, waiting.  He thinks she’s coming back, but he’s not sure.  Wherever they are, this isn’t her place.  This isn’t anyone’s place.  He figures it must be like the empty bunk in the tail section.  A place for clandestine meetings.

 

He just lays there, staring at the ceiling.  He’s alone.  He hasn’t been alone in fourteen years.  He hasn’t been clean in fourteen years.  He still has no idea who she is, or how she can make these things happen.  She just appeared in his life one day, and then disappeared just as quickly.  He’d given up any hope of ever seeing her again.  And then the soldiers pulled him out of line and dragged him here.  He wonders if they had any idea where they were really taking him.  He wonders if that’s why they were so pissed.  They may not live in the tail section, but they’re not good enough for her either.  And they were afraid of her.  Whoever she is, she’s someone important.

 

He lays there and counts the rocking of the train out of habit.  When she returns, it’s been half an hour, maybe less.  She’s clutching a bag to her chest and she hands it to him.  He opens it and looks inside, finding his clothes.  Clean clothes.  Again, like the soap in the shower, there’s no smell to them, no fragrance.  They’re still worn pieces of shit, but they’re no longer crunchy and crusted with the grime of years.

 

“Thank you,” he says, mostly because he knows she can understand him, even if she pretends she can’t.

 

He sets the bag aside and stands, going to her.  She has the robe wrapped tightly around her body.  He pulls at it and she makes a noise of irritation, looking away, still clutching the material closed.  He feels so completely out of his depth.  There is so much going on here and he has no idea what it is.  He feels like an idiot.  He knows it’s there, he just can’t see it.  He tugs at the robe again.

 

She looks up at him and there is something in her expression.  Fear?  He doesn’t understand.  What does she have to fear from him?  He frowns down at her and she finally sighs, leaning back against the wall, letting him pull the robe open.

 

He never saw her completely naked in all their times together.  Only glimpses.  But he committed those glimpses to memory, a perfect mosaic of her locked in his mind.  Her breasts were fantastic to begin with, but they’re larger now, heavy.  Her nipples are darker.  Her belly, which had been perfect creamy skin is now marked with what must be stretch marks.  He just looks at her, at the changes in her body, at the way she won’t meet his gaze and in that moment, he gets it.

 

“A baby,” he says softly.  “You had a baby.”

 

She looks up at him and then away.  She goes back to the bed, dropping the robe to the floor as she crawls beneath the covers.  He follows her.  Her back is to him and she is staring at the wall.  He pulls on her and she finally relents, rolling onto her back.  She glances at him and then back to the ceiling.

 

He shakes his head.  “My name is Curtis,” he says.  He presses his hand to his chest.  “ _Curtis_.”  He feels like an idiot because he  _knows_ she understands him.  But he'll play along because he doesn't know what else to do.

 

She looks at him.

 

“What’s your name?” he asks.

 

She looks away.  He waits.  Finally, she sighs.  She looks back to him.  “Anna.”

 

He smiles.  “Anna.”

 

She rolls her eyes, but she smiles as she does it.  

 

“Nice to meet you Anna,” he says.

 

She frowns at him and he thinks that she doesn't appreciate his humor.

 

He moves closer, pulling her to him.  She lets him.  Gently, his fingers trace the fullness of her breast.  “Is that why you had to leave?” he asks.  “To nurse the baby?”

 

Her nod is almost imperceptible.

 

He seriously contemplates whether or not he wants the answer to the next question, but he has to ask it.  “Is it ours?” he asks.  “I mean is it, did I - “  He looks down at her.

 

She meets his gaze and nods.

 

Holy shit.  He has a kid.   _They_ have a kid.  

 

She sits up, reaching across him and turns the light off again.  She burrows under the covers, pulling him with her and he goes willingly, spooning against her.  They lay there together, in the dark.  He counts the months since he last saw her.  The kid can’t be much more like five or six months old at the most. It’s here, with her, growing up in the front section and he is so desperately grateful for that fact.

 

He sighs.  “Well, I guess now I know why you needed me,” he said.  He has no idea what her situation is.  Maybe she’s with some fat fuck who can’t get it up.  Maybe he’s sterile.  Maybe the front section has quotas just like the tail and she had to produce or risk being sent down.  

 

She turns in his embrace, so she’s facing him.  He can just barely make out her features in the near darkness.  She looks at him, touching his face gently and then kisses him.  He has no idea what it means.  Is she thanking him for helping her fat fuck of a husband look good?  Is she telling him she loves him?  He figures the chance of the former is a lot better than the latter.

 

“ _Curtis_ ,” she says quietly and he had no idea how starved her was for the sound of his name on her lips.

 

They kiss and touch and make love again.  He has no idea what possessed him to think of it in those terms, but it feels right.  Here.  Tonight.  He doesn’t know whether she actually cares about him or not, but it doesn’t change what he feels.  And he thinks that with the way she’s touching him, she must feel something.

 

They lay there together.  He hasn’t seen the sun in fourteen years, but he knows dawn is fast approaching.  He knows more than he did when the night started, but he’s still so far out of the loop.  

 

With a sigh, she pushes herself up into a sitting position and turns on the light.  As he watches, she stretches and rises from the bed.  She holds out a hand to him and he lets her lead him back to the bathroom again.  

 

They shower again and this time he takes her against the wall, hard and fast, leaving them both fighting for breath. She insists on washing him again and it’s enough of a novelty that he allows it.  Truthfully, he can't imagine denying her anything.

 

They dry off and dress.  He notices that the socks are newer, thicker, with reinforced toes.  A big rip in his undershirt has been mended.  Why has she gone to all this trouble?  He knows he could have just jerked off into a cup if that’s really all she wanted.

 

Fully clothed, he looks at himself.  He’s sure he still looks like vermin, but it’s loads better than it was a few hours ago.  He doesn’t even stink now.  He has no idea how he’s going to possibly explain this to Edgar.  The kid is going to drive him nuts with questions.

 

But Edgar isn’t the only one with questions.  

 

There’s a knock on the door and she opens it.  He can see the soldiers, waiting.  She barks at them in French and closes the door.

 

She turns to face him and he pulls her close, looking down at her, studying her.  “Do you want another baby?” he asks.

 

She is quiet for a long time, but she finally looks up at him.  She touches his cheek.  “I want you,” she says.

 

Before he can reply, she twists away and opens the door.  The soldiers grab him, shove the bag on his head and he’s being dragged back to the tail section.

 

END CHAPTER


End file.
